Cahuita, with its gravel and mud tracks,
is similar to other coastal villages. Most live
in numbered barrios along the highway.
Blond and fair skinned like an archangel
in a loose jumper, her tummy swells gently,
a sweet salt dew on her upper lip. If I were
a woman here, Id want babies too. One of
the pensive sisters who manage the café
says they have come from Padua, home
of St. Anthony. Their grandfathers play
cards at a table in the empty bar.
In the coastal jungle, macaws
and howler monkeys evince natures
epic disdain for human law and order. My carriage
indistinguishable from that of other tourists.